The Masters' Chronicles 011- Tooth and Claw
by Fainmaca
Summary: A Witcher Master of the School of the Cat, Bastian is a skilled hunter. His skills are tested to their limits, however, when he takes on a contract in Novigrad. Based on characters and events from the first International edition of the Witcher School LARP in Poland.
1. Chapter 1

Water dripped from the ceiling of the circular tunnel, splashing down on the uneven brickwork that formed the floor. Some water ran in thick rivulets down the tunnel's walls, worming its way between loose brickwork and over patches of slimy mold that had infested the walls in wide, foul-smelling growths. Down the centre of the tunnel's floor, a stream of what could generously be considered water dragged itself across the stonework. A pungent smell arose from this river, sickening to even the hardiest of constitutions. Rats scurried about the tunnel, gnawing on anything edible that they could get their claws on.

These were the sewers of Novigrad, ancient, impressive, infested. All kinds of creatures called them their home, drawn there to feast upon the waste of the enormous city above and its twenty thousand or so inhabitants. Faecal matter, food scraps, the occasional body, they all found their way down here, to be washed out to sea, eventually.

Panting echoed from the brick walls of the narrow tunnel, bouncing back and forth to fill the air. The splashing of heavy, frantic footsteps preceded a short, hunched shape lurching into view around one of the tunnel's turns. A man, short but broad in stature, clad in an elegant silken shirt and red velvet pantaloons, rushed down the tunnel, heedless of the slop that he waded through. A short, poorly maintained mop of black hair crowned his head. He gasped for air, his chest expanding and contracting with every step, his greasy, pock-marked face red with exertion. In his arms, he clutched a bundle of cloth, wrapped around something that clinked in the gloom.

Wild eyes glanced back over his shoulder, searching for some horror on his tail. As he did so, his boot landed on something unmentionable with a loud squelch, and the man tumbled, landing face-first in the grimy river. The bundle fell from his grasp, falling into the shallow stream. Its contents came loose, a golden candlestick, a few silver plates, and a necklace, silver set with a few sparkling gemstones. Frantically, the man scooped up the scattered valuables, stuffed them back into the bundle, and resumed his flight.

A loud snarl caught the man's ear, drawing his terrified gaze backwards. Behind him, in the shadows, yellow eyes blazed with feral hunger. A ravenous bellow echoed from three separate throats as squat shaped loped towards him. Cracked nails scraped on smooth bricks while rotten brown teeth gnashed at the air. Bloated bellies were covered by pallid grey skin pulled tight, while swollen, fat throats gurgled. Nekkers. Filthy little ogroids prowled these sewers, feasting on the grime and scraps of the city, growing fat and strong.

Terror giving him renewed reserves of energy, the fleeing merchant put on a fresh burst of speed, surging through the tide of filth to escape his pursuers. He rounded a corner, and came to a sudden halt, confronted with a dead end. This branch of the sewer ended abruptly in a flat, featureless wall. The rotten remnants of a long-decayed ladder littered the floor of the tunnel, a couple of stumps protruding from the ceiling above leading up to a hatch, far overhead and, much to the merchant's dismay, well beyond his reach.

Disheartened at the discovery, the merchant turned to face the Nekkers, curling around the bundle protectively. Perhaps he could use the candlestick as a club to fend the beasts off? No, he realised. There was no way he could be brave enough to do something like that, his hands trembling, his guts turning to ice as he looked to the monsters following him. The Nekkers, sensing that victory was close, slowed a little, fanning out in a half-circle to prevent any avenue of escape. The leader of the pack, a taller brute with bulging muscles and red markings across his chest, stepped forward, making ready to attack.

The blade sliced through the air with a silken whisper, neatly removing the beast's head from its shoulders. Behind the weapon, a lithe, shadowed form dropped, following through on the swing with a boot to the headless Nekker's chest, knocking the monster aside, before the new arrival turned his gaze to the other two beasts.

The newcomer was a man of average height, with a slim but powerful build. Under his armour, a combination of fine leather and a long, black gambeson, powerful muscles flexed, telling of a life of disciplined training. Short brown hair was cut close to the scalp, matched by a neatly trimmed goatee, his cheeks and jawline clean shaven. Every facet of this man was neatly presented, showing a tight grip on himself and his appearance, a firm sense of discipline exuding from him.

In his hands rested a silvered longsword, its pommel finely carved with the effigy of a snarling cat. The blade itself shone brightly in the darkness, as though glowing with its own inner light. The blade moved swiftly, fluidly, slicing first one, then the other Nekker, felling the beasts with one strike each. The way the weapon moved, it seemed to be an extension of the man's arm, as much a part of him as an eye, or a hand.

In less time than it took the merchant to stand, the newcomer felled the Nekkers before turning to face him, sword still held in aggressive stance. The merchant quailed before his ferocious gaze, eyes burning with a bright yellow fire. At his breast, a silver medallion that mirrored the pommel of his weapon lurked, its emerald green eyes gazing out over a vicious snarl. The merchant wilted underneath his glare, just as terrified of his saviour as he had been of his attackers.

His breathing still a little elevated from the adrenaline of combat, the Witcher, for that is what the newcomer was, stepped even closer.

"I told you not to run." He chided the merchant, with an irritable shake of his head. "Especially not into the sewers like a fucking moron. Now, you just get to die tired, and I've got shit on my boots."

"Please..." The merchant whimpered, dropping to his knees. "I'm sorry for running, I'm sorry for your boots. Just... please, don't kill me!"

"A compelling argument, really well reasoned." The Witcher drawled sarcastically, coming to a halt in front of the other man, looming over him threateningly.

"I don't understand." The merchant stammered. "I thought your kind didn't kill people, just beasts!"

"I was trained to hunt and kill monsters, no matter the species." The Witcher brought his sword about, bringing its tip under the merchant's chin and forcing him to look up, until his eyes met those wild, burning amber orbs of the monster hunter. "As long as the coin is good, and I have a good reason, I'll hunt whatever I need to."

"Why me?" The merchant, on the verge of tears, stifled a sob. The tip of the blade, still slick with Nekker blood, scratched at the flesh of his throat.

"You don't know? You, Kellis Garworth, who raped the daughter of Barris Vehmner. Now, thanks to your soiling of her dignity, Lord Denhorst refuses to wed her, and the Vehnmer family has lost face. They paid a pretty penny for my services."

"Th-that was never proven!" The merchant, Kellis, protested. "There was no evidence to support the accusations!"

"And that's why the Vehnmers turned to me." The Witcher tilted his head, pushing the tip of the blade a little to force the merchant to straighten up even further. "A Witcher puts up nowhere near as many obstacles to resolving an issue as the courts do."

"Then... I'll pay you more!" The merchant bargained. "Whatever the price, I'll double it."

"Hmm... tempting." The Witcher seemed to mull the offer over, before shrugging indifferently. "But no, I don't think so. Not this time."

"Wait, wait, wait-!" Kellis' pleas were cut short as the sword thrust forward, piercing his throat until it burst out through the back of his neck, severing his spine instantly. The newly created corpse sagged, sliding off the end of the sword as his blood flowed across the aged bricks.

The Witcher released a long, slow sigh, shaking his head. He crouched next to the body for a moment, wiping his blade off on a patch of the merchant's shirt that was relatively unsoiled. He spared his prey's scattered goods a momentary glance, then shoved them into the flowing stream, allowing them to vanish beneath the tide of filth. Then, sheathing his sword, he stood, turning to stalk away from the body. The sewer's denizens would claim the corpse soon enough.

~o~0~o~

Darkness reigned over the streets of Novigrad, the occasional light from a soot-stained window casting uncertain shadows across the streets, empty save for the occasional patrolling guard, or prowling harlot. Even an enormous city such as the trading port of Novigrad fell quiet on a night like this, when thick fog rolled in from the sea and smothered the settlement beneath a white shroud.

In a back alley behind a warehouse, close to the docks, a hatch set in the worn cobblestones shuddered and, with a grunt, the Witcher rose from the sewers. He spared a moment to kick the shit from his boots before, with a sniff, he turned towards the docks. He could smell the salt in the air, the sweat of seamen mixing with rapidly ageing fish to create an unmistakable aroma that he could follow. He marched through the streets, until he found himself on the edge of the enormous harbour of Novigrad, the city's most valuable asset. His glowing eyes scanned the docks for a moment, before he spotted a single lantern lit above the stern of a small fishing skiff, heading straight for it. He leapt from the dockside to the small boat.

"Time to go." He called to the figure at the stern, a dark outline beside the lantern, hand draped over the rudder. "The job's done, time to go get paid."

"That's good to hear."

The unfamiliar voice caused the Witcher to pause, hand reaching for the hilt of his sword.

"That won't be necessary, Witcher." The figure leaned forward, allowing the light of the lantern to fall across his face.

He was an older man, a grey beard adorning his worn features. A hood covered his head, casting dark shadows across his eyes. He was, the Witcher noted, unarmed. Slowly, the monster hunter relaxed. his gaze darted about, looking for any other figures who might pose a threat. He saw no one.

"What happened to Rauth?" He asked, speaking of the boat's owner.

"By now? Probably halfway through his fifth tankard of ale, or warming himself in the arms of some harlot or another." The figure shrugged. "He was adequately compensated for abandoning his post."

The Witcher narrowed his eyes, making a mental note of the betrayal. It never ceased to amaze him, how easily a man could be bought. The figure shared a knowing smile with him.

"Your ferryman may not be too reliable an ally, Witcher, but do not be overly concerned. He has not sold you out to an enemy. I am here to speak with you as a potential client."

"What makes you think I need a client?" The Witcher asked defensively.

"You are a Witcher." The figure chuckled. "You and your ilk are always looking for the next coin, one way or another. And you, you are the renowned Bastian of Belhaven, are you not?"

The Witcher, Bastian, twitched at being identified, self-consciously looking about in case any town guards were within earshot. The figure, observing his tension, chuckled again.

"Relax, my friend. By incredible coincidence, the guardsmen are all patrolling other parts of the city at the moment. They will not be able to detain you this day, although Captain Merryn is keen to see you apprehended for that incident in Ursten."

"Who are you?" Bastian asked carefully.

"I suppose its only fair that I give you my name." The figure shrugged. "I am Yannis Brysvalt. Merchant, landowner, and advisor on the city council of Novigrad. And I have a job for you."

"What kind of job?" Bastian pressed. He didn't like how the merchant seemed to have all the power in the conversation.

"The kind best suited to your talents." The merchant smirked. "Even among your kind, you have a skillset uniquely qualified to accomplish what I desire."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then we part ways, and will likely never see one another again." Yannis shrugged. "Although I would be disappointed. I figured you a man practical enough for my needs. I mean, look at your work with poor, harmless Kellis."

"Not so harmless, if the Vehnmers are to be believed." Bastian contended.

"And yet, the evidence against him was very thin, was it not?" The merchant pressed, eyes gleaming in the dark.

"Its not my place to make the judgements." Bastian shrugged.

"No. You just hold the blade that delivers the sentence." Yannis stroked his chin ponderously. "I wonder... how many times have the Vehnmers called upon your guild, to protect their quarries from Shaelmar, to rid their mines of Kikimorae, that little incident with the wraith child in their summer home? How many more contracts did you secure for your Guild through one swing of your sword?"

"You're trying to make a point." Bastian sternly commented. "Any chance of reaching it before the dawn?"

"If you thought that the Vehnmer's gratitude was valuable, I can assure you- mine is doubly so." Yannis smiled. "I have many business interests, all of which can find a use for any number of Witchers. What's more, I have the ear of many nobles throughout Velen. Life in this region could become very easy for you and your brethren."

Bastian mulled it over for a few seconds, regarding the old merchant cautiously. he had to admit, times had been tough for the Witchers recently. Fear filled the common folk, tales fuelling a growing resentment of the Guild. Tales of Witchers snatching children from their beds, of massacres in remote villages who could not pay the promised reward, of monsters unleashed deliberately to coerce communities into hiring the monster hunters. Mostly false, but some with a grain of truth at their heart. Now, with mankind spreading their settlements far and wide, and monster attacks growing more rare as the beasts steadily lost their homes, many were questioning the value of the ancient Guild. Soon, Bastian feared, a day would come when the people would think that the time of the Witchers had passed, and their fear of the mutated hunters would turn them against the Guild.

Finally, with a shrug, Bastian sat down on an empty crate, leaning back as he watched Yannis carefully. A confident smirk twitched across his lips.

"Alright then, let's talk business."


	2. Chapter 2

Twilight hung heavy over the outskirts of Novigrad, the last few slivers of orange half-light vanishing behind the looming shadows of the city's walls. Under the shroud of darkness, parts of the city began to slumber, while others awakened. Warm light kindled in thousands of small, soot-stained windows. Atop the heights of the Temple Isle, the bells of the temple that was the island's namesake tolled solemnly to greet the night.

All of this and more reached Bastian's senses as he silently slid through a heavy, cast-iron gate. He found himself inside the walls of one of the larger mansions that occupied the edge of the city, just within the boundary of the thick walls that girdled the settlement.

The mansion was completely silent, save for the winds that whistled through its grounds. The main building itself was a blackened husk. Windows, their glass blown outwards by an immense heat from within, stared emptily at the Witcher, the home's facade now little more than a blank, dead mask. A long, low creak groaned across the grounds, echoing from deep within the abandoned building.

A body lay on the stone path that led from the gate to the house, sprawled on its belly. A dirty cotton shirt and black canvas trousers were spattered with mud and dried blood. Cautiously, Bastian knelt next to the prone form, turning it over.

The body was withered, as if something vital had been drained from it. Skin hung loosely from the slight frame, muscles shrivelled underneath. The face was locked in a grim rictus of terror, eyes wide as the jaw hung slackly open. The blank stare was glassy, the lifeless orbs clouded over with the veil of death. A trickle of blood escaped from the corner of his mouth, as well as the ears and nostrils.

He had been a normal man, once. Probably a beggar hoping to find some valuable salvage in the ruined house. Bastian scanned the rest of his body, noting the lack of broken bones or the marks of any weapon. Whatever had killed him, it was no normal foe. Most likely it had been the fear that got him, the Witcher observed. The Human heart could only be pushed so far, the mind tormented so much, before ultimately it gave out, and the body simply stopped functioning. Whatever had attacked him had them fed upon his fading life essence, leaving his corpse a withered husk.

Bastian stood, turning his gaze towards the mansion. He knew of a few beings who could kill like this. He absently placed his hand upon the hilt of the silver sword at his hip, already considering strategies. Old lessons from his time at Kaer Marter rose in the back of his skull, knowledge that began to shape a plan of action in his mind's eye.

He needed more information, which could only be gained by going deeper. Steeling his resolve, the Witcher trudged towards the front doors of the ashen husk before him.

The merchant, Yannis, had only been able to share a scarce few details of what had happened at the mansion which, until a few months previously, had been home to his brother. Having belonged to the Brysvalt family for some generations, the stately home had housed Yannis' brother, his wife and their four children, right up until the night when a raging inferno had consumed the entire building, killing the young family and their servants. The stately home had lain empty since, undisturbed until recently, when a number of disappearances in the area had been traced back to the desolate building.

Bastian mulled over his conversation with the old merchant. Something still didn't sit right with him. While it was clear to see that whatever prowled these ruins was not Human, it still did not explain why the merchant had felt the need to seek the Cat School Master out, specifically. Surely any Witcher could have been commissioned for the task? And yet, the favour of such an influential figure in the city could not be ignored. With a man like Yannis whispering positive opinions in the ears of his peers, Novigrad could quickly become a haven for Witchers of all kinds, a reliable source of contract work that was neither beholden to Redanian or Temeria. The Witcher could not pass up the opportunity. With a sigh, Bastian stepped up to the tall double doors that marked the entrance to the mansion.

The doors groaned loudly, shuddering against their warped frames as Bastian put all of his strength into pushing them aside. The wretched creak shivered its way down the Witcher's spine, setting his teeth on edge.

Beyond, the mansion was filled with deep, dark shadows. Wooden walls had been charred beyond all recognition, while scorch marks crawled across tiled floors. Door frames now lay empty, their contents now burnt flinders. Very little remained of the furnishings, a mass of ash here that may once have been a luxurious chaise-lounge, a pile of cold embers there that may have been a table. A small pool of misshapen brass in the centre of the entrance foyer was all that remained of an elegant chandelier that had once been suspended from the ceiling.

Bastian walked through this, reaching out with all of his senses to survey his surroundings. He could taste the chalky ash on the air, could feel the crunch of charcoal under his boots. He sniffed deeply, detecting the scent of burnt wood, scorched leather and, underneath it all, the unmistakable aroma of searing flesh, the smell of death. With that smell, the mental image rose in the Witcher's mind of how the occupants of the mansion may have passed, the agonised screams from tortured lungs, the sizzle and pop of melting skin, the last gasps of breath before death finally took them. He'd had the misfortune to witness exactly such a fate overcome many before, and it was still one of the things that tried his constitution the most.

A faint scraping sound caught the Witcher's ear. The slightest rustle of movement. Bastian turned, looking towards the source of the sound, only to see nothing. Even with his enhanced vision, the house was incredibly dark. Thankfully, the Witcher was prepared. He pulled the small storm lantern off its clip on his belt, waving his fingers over the oil-soaked wick to trace the symbol of the sign of Igni, producing a small flame that set the wick alight. The glow of the lantern reached out to explore the room, casting uncertain shadows in the deepest corners. The Witcher raised the lantern high, looking around carefully.

He almost missed it. A faint shiver of movement, the small kick of rising ash as something unseen shifted towards one corner of the room. An invisible form traced a trail of footprints, fleeing towards the far corner of the room. Cautiously, Bastian approached.

A painting still clung to the wall, by some miracle. A heavily gilted frame surrounded a canvas coated in a thick layer of soot. The Witcher raised a wary hand to brush at the blackened canvas, knocking loose a few small clouds of black powder. Underneath, the image of a family was revealed. A mother, prim and proper with a small smile gracing her lips. At her shoulder, a man with a firm expression, eyes gleaming with strength. By their sides, three boys stood, each of varying ages. In the woman's lap, a young girl, blonde hair and blue eyes vivid even under the coat of ash.

Bastian paused, his eyes softening as he took in the image captured there. He'd never met the family before, and yet the children felt so familiar to him. The boys, one far taller than the others, another wearing a roguish smirk, and the third, somewhat more stern, back a little straighter as he regarded the artist. The girl, sitting there with her wide-eyed innocence. It all seemed like something he had seen before. For just a moment, his memories travelled back, thinking of-

The sudden snapping sound tore him from his thoughts before he could follow them, the Witcher spinning as the ceiling above him sagged. A vital beam supporting the upper floor gave way, allowing a mass of charred and brittle timbers to drop on his head. The Witcher, distracted by his thoughts, barely had the time to raise a protective arm over himself before the mass struck him. Under his feet, the tiled floor gave way, unable to take the impact. The Witcher, the timbers, and the floor all vanished into a large, dark hole with a thunderous crash.

Coughing, Bastian struggled to regain his feet, pushing aside the pile of rubble that had landed on top of him. The Witcher silently thanked Master Herridus, the old Cat School Signs instructor of Kaer Marter, for drilling the instincts into him to have cast a Quen Sign even as he fell, protecting his body from the brunt of the impact. The Witcher rose from the rubble, dusting himself off and retrieving his thankfully unbroken lantern from where it had tumbled. He lifted the light source to scan his new surroundings.

He was now in a wine cellar, having fallen some fifteen feet. He looked about, taking in the crumbled ruins of numerous wine racks. Barrels had split from the heat, their precious contents spilling across cold flagstones, staining them a deep purple. some damp pieces of wood had survived, the moisture of the wine protecting them, but most had fallen victim to the blaze, leaving little behind.

Bastian's eyes narrowed as he spotted something in the debris. Black footprints in the wine stains. Places where the burgundy liquid had been stepped on by ash-coated bare feet, the wine and ash mixing to make a paste that left a trail from the stairs on one side of the cellar, down deeper into the sub-level of the mansion. Curious, the Witcher followed the trail.

In the deepest, darkest corner of the cellar, another doorway barred the Witcher's path. Unlike the other doors, this one had been carved from thick stone. Even so, black scorch marks marred its surface, the blaze having found its way even here. The door, heavy and imposing, lay ever so slightly ajar.

Bastian quickly found a shard of wood that appeared mostly untouched by the flames, using it as a lever to wedge into the narrow gap of the doorway. He shoved, managing to shift the door just a couple of inches, before the wooden spar snapped, but those few inches were enough for the Witcher to get his hands in and pull with all his might, the strength granted to him by his mutations allowing him to slowly, inexorably force the door open wide.

What lay within could only be described as a treasure hoard. Clearly, this room had once been the vault of Brysvalt's brother, full of every imaginable kind of trinket and treasure. Stone alcoves had once held chests brimming with coins, while golden plates and etchings had decorated the walls and ceiling.

Now, though, the ferocity of the inferno above had wrought its terrible toll on the riches within. Coins had turned to liquid within their chests, the wooden boxes catching alight and disintegrating, allowing the molten metal to flow in glimmering rivers. The gold that had covered the ceiling had dripped down like candlewax, creating small stalactites and stalagmites that cut through the air like vicious claws.

In the centre of the room, a single mournful figure knelt, shoulders hunched in defeat, head bowed in sorrow. Liquid gold had dropped down on the figure, coating the man's body and burning away flesh, until only bones and a few scraps of cooked meat remained, strands of solidified gold holding the skeletal form together.

Judging from his size, the skeletal form had once been a full-grown man, Bastian surmised. Presumably Brysvalt's brother, the lord of the manor. The Witcher had to suppress a shudder. Death by gilding, he had to imagine that that was one of the worse ways to go. And all for the sake of a few coins. The lord had probably thought that he would be safe down here, among his treasures, forgetting about the searing heat the fire would create. A wave of disdain rose in the Witcher's mind as he regarded the figure. To die chasing after gold-

No. That wasn't it, the Witcher realised. He looked at the figure, staring at the door forlornly. Turning to look back at the door, Bastian now noted the long scratches in the stone. He stepped over, kneeling next to the door for a closer look. Finger nails, cracked and torn, lay scattered at the threshold of the door. The long, slight gouges in the stone matched a man's desperate scrabbling to escape, like a trapped animal.

Bastian, still crouching, leaned back on his heels. So, not fleeing to his riches, then. Locked in, trapped by another. But who, and why?

Thunnk.

The sound echoed in the small chamber loudly, a heavy gonging of metal on metal. the Witcher spun towards the source of the sound, and froze.

The tortured figure of the dead man stirred. Gold creaked and twisted as the skeletal shape rose to its feet. The figure lurched, shambling forward a few steps as it fought against the weight of the gold that coated it. The skull, a few strands of burnt hair still clinging to seared flesh between patches of gold, rose to turn and face the intruder. One eye socket was hollow, the orb burned away by the fierce heat, while the other eye still remained, rolling about in the socket loosely. The eye had been turned a milky white by death, but some kind of consciousness still lurked in that stare. As it turned to regard the Witcher, that consciousness reacted, the light of rage kindling within its gaze.

A hoarse screech tore loose from the seared throat as, with surprising swiftness, the gilded Wight lunged at Bastian.


	3. Chapter 3

The undead creature lurched forwards, swinging its arms clumsily at the Witcher. Fingers coated in gold formed wickedly sharp claws that slashed through the air, tearing at Bastian with fierce vigour. The creature's maw sagged open, rotting tongue curling behind blackened teeth. The milky white eye glared at the Witcher balefully, hatred and rage apparent in its gaze.

Bastian nimbly stepped back, ducking out through the doorway before the gilded revenant could pin him against its frame. He carefully considered his opponent, mind racing to come up with a strategy. Normally, a mouldering corpse like this would pose little threat, but the gold covering it presented a challenge. It gave the creature some added resilience, and presented a risk to the Witcher's blades. He had no desire to dull his sword's edge on the metal, or even risk shattering the blade. Even so, he lifted his weapon into a defensive stance, ready to catch a swinging arm with the flat of the weapon.

The corpse howled as it lashed out, a heavy strike that sent shivers running up the Witcher's arm, jarring his shoulder. With a grunt, Bastian pushed back with the weapon, using his brute strength to stagger the monster a pace or two backwards. The Witcher then dropped into a low guard, managing to take a couple of steps backwards, beginning to circle around his foe. His sharp eyes gleamed in the darkness, catching every detail of the beast in front of him. Weaknesses revealed themselves, places where the gold had not reached, leaving softer burnt tissue exposed.

The silver blade whickered through the air, finding one such place behind the knee. The sharpened metal tore through the burnt flesh, causing the corpse to stagger. The monster groaned as it strove to recover, straightening. It charged once more, but was denied as Bastian hurled himself to the ground, dropping into a tight roll. The Cat School Master spun, hand already rising to cast one of his Signs, this time an Aard. The blast of magical energy that leapt from his hand, a physical thrust of semi-solid air, struck the beast square in the chest, but did little to affect it. Bastian cursed. Of course it was too heavy for his magic to move, with all the gold clinging to it.

The revenant lunged at him again, this time landing a backhanded swipe that drove all of the air from the Witcher's lungs. Bastian felt his leg buckle as the breath left him, dropping to one knee as he strained to keep his sword up. He blocked two more strikes before managing to regain his breath. With a burst of speed, he launched forward, under the next attack, rolling across the ground to come to a halt behind the creature. He spun, blade slicing through the air as he found another chink in the beast's glimmering armour, severing the spine. The monster toppled to the floor again, before whatever foul energies animated the corpse pulled it back together, allowing it to climb back to its feet.

Panting, Bastian circled around the beast warily, watching how it moved, analysing it cautiously. In the back of his mind, a familiar voice began to rise, one he had not heard in many years. The aged but powerful Witcher Treysse, Grandmaster of the Cat School, giving out sage advice earned over decades of his life as a monster hunter.

"Your speed is your greatest asset, Bastian." The old Cat's voice echoed in Bastian's mind. "Strike swiftly, strike often, and do not allow your enemy reprieve. Be ever ferocious, and bleed your enemy while remaining light on your feet, just beyond his attacks. Then, when he is weakened and vulnerable, go for the throat and deliver the killing strike. That is the way of the Witchers of Kaer Marter- to fight tooth and claw!"

The lessons of the old Cat whispering in his mind, Bastian shifted his feet, raising his blade. The monster seemed to sense the extra aggression in his stance, eyeing him cautiously, although nothing could have prepared it for what came next.

With a fierce snarl, the Witcher leapt forward, sword slashing left and right in a wicked flurry. Adrenaline filled his veins, his muscles swelling with overpowering heat as he moved with lightning speed and grace. The silver blade nicked at exposed skin here and there, hacking off lumps of scorched flesh and cutting through what remained of tendons and connective tissue.

The gilded revenant dropped to its knees, glowering up at the Witcher that towered over it. Without giving it even a second to recover, Bastian drew back and delivered a powerful kick with the bottom of his boot, right in the centre of the monster's forehead. The impact shuddered back up his leg, all the way through his spine and into his skull, but the powerful blow was hard enough to knock the damaged creature back. The shambling corpse tumbled onto its back, landing across the threshold of the open doorway. With a fierce roar, Bastian cast the Sign of Igni, focusing all of his power into a single stream of energy. Flames leapt out from the palm of his hand, washing over the beast's skull and shoulders. With a mighty effort, Bastian poured more of his energy into the Sign, turning the flame from red, to orange, then white. Raw heat made his skin prickle as he maintained the assault for as long as he could, finally releasing his focus as he touched his limits.

As the light of the flame faded, in its place lay the revenant, the gold that had coated its skull now just a shimmering puddle underneath it. The skull was still intact, although that glowering eye, the rotting tongue, the mouldering flesh that had once clung to it half-heartedly, all was burnt away by the Witcher's Sign, leaving nothing but bare, scorched bone. The beast lay still, lifeless.

The silence of the cellar abruptly shattered as the revenant lurched again, jaw opening wide as an unearthly shriek tore loose from a spectral throat. White light shone in the empty eye sockets as the creature tried to lift its head, howling defiance at the Witcher.

Bastian reacted instantly, immediately planting all of his weight behind the door and shoving. With a low scrape, the heavy stone slab shifted, swinging back into its place. The revenant barely had a chance to growl in surprise before the granite slab slammed shut, catching its skull between door and jamb. There was a sickening crunch of splintering bone as the skull was abruptly reduced to dust, and the gold-coated body of the monster finally went still, seemingly for good.

Bastian sagged against the door, breathing heavily. The haze of battle quickly passed from his eyes, his pulse slowing as he filled and emptied his lungs a few times. While some other Witchers had struggled with the more bestial instincts that battle awakened inside them, Bastian had always kept an iron-hard grip upon his aggression, never losing himself to the animal instincts that boiled within. In mere moments, he was calm once more, at peace.

Slowly, the Witcher stood up, releasing a tired sigh. He retrieved his lantern from where it had fallen during the fight, noting with an irritable grunt the cracks in the glass. He shrugged, returning it to its clip on his belt.

The hairs on the back of his neck rose as an unnatural chill suddenly crept through the air. Bastian immediately tensed, feeling a tug on his energy that he knew well. At first, he turned to the motionless corpse, half expecting to see it rising once more, but the gold-coated creature remained utterly still. Besides, this new energy he was feeling was different to whatever had animated the corpse. More vibrant, less aggressive, and much, much more powerful. Slowly, the Witcher turned.

Four figures lurked behind him, watching the monster hunted with wary eyes. They twitched nervously under his stare, almost darting away in fear. Instead, they simply clustered together, timidly facing the Witcher. Bastian's eyes widened as he looked at them.

An unearthly glow seeped from the four diminutive figures, bathing the walls of the cellar in a pale, blue-white light. Wisps of ethereal energy shimmered around them, their incorporeal forms almost transparent. Cautiously, one of the shades stepped forward, his expression bold, his stance exuding more confidence than he probably felt. With a false air of confidence, he stepped up to challenge the Witcher. As he spoke, it sounded as though his voice was travelling across a vast distance, echoing with a deep, reverberating energy.

"Who are you?" The ghostly child demanded. "What are you doing here? Where is our father?"


	4. Chapter 4

Bastian opened his mouth, uncertainty seizing his voice before he could utter a word. The four spectral children watched him warily before the smallest, a girl, looked past him, spotting the fallen form of the revenant. A frightened gasp escaped from her.

"Father!"

The small figure dashed towards the gold-covered corpse. On an instinct, Bastian reached out towards her, trying to keep her from the body of the dangerous beast, but his fingers passed through the incorporeal child's shoulder. He turned to see the ghostly girl kneel next to the prone corpse, pain and worry creasing her features. A small sob echoed from her.

"Father..." Her morose voice, tinged with the ethereal energy of the grave, bounced off the walls in strange ways, making it unclear if the words came from the figure directly before the Witcher, or from the air around him.

Then, with a startling suddenness, the girl straightened, turning a fiercely angry glare towards the monster hunter. Her eyes burned with white light as she lifted an accusing finger.

"You did this!" She seethed.

Bastian was suddenly aware of the other phantasms moving around him with purpose. He turned to see one, the tallest boy, moving to his left, eyes burning with a similar ferocity to those of the girl. To his right, the shorter boy who'd once borne a cocksure grin now glowered similarly. Behind him, the boy who'd first spoken now drew uncomfortably close. He spoke once again.

"You hurt our father!" He growled.

Bastian felt it first as a subtle pressure in the back of his mind, a weight that pulled at his consciousness. Then, all too quickly, the pressure became an immense burden. The Witcher gasped as the four spectres initiated a co-ordinated attack, drawing on and draining his stamina. Bastian fell to his knees, feeling his heart quicken as his body reacted to the ethereal attack.

The weight pressing in on his spirit was immense, the attack sapping at his core. The Witcher gasped for breath, his vision turning hazy. He thought back to the figure outside, sprawled on the garden path. Utterly drained of his vital force, a withered husk. It wouldn't be long before Bastian would join him.

The Witcher raised a shaking hand, reaching out to the cold stone before him. With a mighty effort, he used his fingertip to scrawl in the black soot, tracing the angular shape of the Yrden Sign. As he clung to the last vestiges of his consciousness, he channelled what magical energy he could into the symbol, casting the Sign.

The ghostly figures let out gasps of surprise and frustration as a ring of magical energy appeared around the Witcher, an arcane barrier that cut them off from him. Runes that mirrored the one drawn by Bastian's hand appeared in a circle around him, a protective boundary to keep the phantoms back. As their attack was abruptly cut off, the Witcher finally managed to catch his breath, the faintness in his brain receding.

All was silent for a long moment, then a sudden sob cut through the air. Bastian turned to see the girl drop to her knees, a morose expression crossing her face. All around him, the spectral figures sagged, sorrow overcoming them. Their keening reverberated back off the cellar's walls as the Witcher slowly rose to his feet, towering over the diminutive spectres. The ghostly children stepped away, intimidated by the monster hunter. The clustered together, the boldest of the quartet stepping forward to challenge Bastian again.

"Who are you?" He asked. "What do you want?"

"I'm a Witcher." Bastian answered, a little more firmly than he intended. "I was sent here by Yannis to find out what happened."

"You know uncle Yannis?" The boy asked.

"Yes." Bastian replied. "He paid me to come here."

"Have you come to hurt us?" The girl stammered.

"No! No more hurting!" The tall boy wrapped an arm around her protectively, his stance becoming more aggressive. "We'll kill you first!"

"I'm not here to hurt you." Bastian raised his hands to try and calm the spectral children. The runes of his Yrden Sign were already beginning to fade, and he doubted that he had enough energy to cast another Sign. "I'm here to help you!"

"How?" The third boy asked warily.

"I just need to know what happened here, and I can try to fix it. Just tell me what happened on the night of the fire."

"The fire..." The boy that Bastian identified as the leader chewed his lip for a moment. "I don't remember much. It was after dark, we were all asleep."

"I remember sounds of father shouting at someone." The tall boy supplied. "There was a bang, and a shout, and then I smelled the smoke."

"Can't run, can't escape." The third boy gazed off into the distance with a hundred-league stare, the trauma of the memory seizing him. "Its so hot. I tried to hide under my bed, but my hair is already burning!"

"I woke up to the screams." The girl shivered. "There was someone in my room. He tried to grab me, to drag me away, but I fought him. He got angry, and hit me across the face with the back of his hand. I fell, and hit my head. There was so much blood. Then he turned and ran." She reached up to her cheek, where a deep mark showed, the imprint of a ring cutting into her flesh when she received the powerful backhanded blow. "I tried to get up, but couldn't move."

"The smoke was so thick, I couldn't breathe." The tall boy added. "I tried to get out of my room, but I fell over, and my eyes got so heavy. When I woke up... the fire had gone out."

The leader turned to Bastian, ignorance in his stare.

"What happened to us, Witcher?" He demanded. "Why are we like this?"

Bastian sighed, dropping down onto one knee as he faced the children. He looked to each of the spectral faces. There was no easy way to explain what had happened.

"I'm sorry." He began sincerely. "You all died in the fire. Something about that night trapped your spirits here." He looked back over his shoulder, towards the gilded corpse. "Along with your father."

The children were silent for what felt like an eternity. The leader seemed to process the information fastest, a sad expression passing across his face. The tall boy merely looked numb, while the other lad chewed his lip for a moment, rage seeming to build in his expression. Lastly, the girl, the youngest of the clutch, merely looked at the Witcher with eyes that didn't, couldn't understand. A twinge of pity filled Bastian. These children were all too young to face such harsh realities. Finally, the foremost of the children spoke again.

"How do we fix this?"

"Its difficult to say." Bastian explained gently. "I can find your bones, give them a proper burial. Hopefully that will be enough to break your binding to this world. As long as you really want to find peace and be at rest, you'll be able to move on properly." He glanced at the golden corpse again. "Your father will be more difficult. The way he died has turned him into a revenant of some kind, a vengeful spirit bound to his body. I won't be able to talk to him, like I am talking to you, because there's not enough of his mind left for that."

"But... you already defeated him." The tall boy pointed out. "Isn't he gone for good now?"

"He's only been dispersed for a short time." Bastian answered. "Whatever purpose binds him to the world will eventually bring him back. I need to find out what that purpose is, what motivates him. Only then can I put him to rest for good."

The children looked to one another for a long, quiet moment. Eventually the leader, arms folded across his chest, spoke out again.

"It's us." He said.

"Excuse me?" Bastian's brow furrowed.

"He's stayed here for us." The boy explained. "He used to promise that he would always look out for us and protect us."

"That could be the binding." Bastian nodded. "Perhaps, if I can help you move on, then he will find peace, too."

"Alright." The boy straightened, chest puffing out. "If it helps father find peace, we want to help. What do we need to do."

"I'll need to bury your remains." Bastian stood, relieved to find the spirits so co-operative. "Show me to your rooms, and I'll find them."

~o~0~o~

Several hours later, the darkness of night still hung heavily over Novigrad. The air was still, the noises of the city still muted. Meanwhile, down in the grounds of the Brysvalt mansion, Bastian still toiled away, standing over four fresh graves. A shovel retrieved from the largely undamaged stables in his hand, he threw the final few handfuls of dirt on the last of the graves, the one belonging to the little girl. He took a step back, looking down upon his work.

He'd not had much to work with, salvaging a few planks from the stables. Without tools, all he had been able to do was heat one of his daggers, using the heated tip of the blade to scorch a name into each plank. Those planks were now firmly planted into the loose soil over each grave. He scanned each one with a careful eye.

Ernst. Dranne. Jorst. Eline... He paused at the last one, feeling a little knot rise in his throat. The four children brought back more than a few memories the Witcher would have rather left out of his thoughts for the time being.

To one side, the four children watched him in silence. The Witcher found it more than a little unsettling, just how calmly and emptily the young ghosts watched him. Finally, once his task was complete, and the four small piles of blackened bones had been interred, he turned to face the spectres and nodded wordlessly.

The phantoms obediently moved to step next to their corresponding graves. As they did so, Bastian moved to stand in their midst, clearing his throat awkwardly.

"I ask..." He paused, uncertain what to say, or even who to direct the words to.

He'd never been a man of faith, and had no clear idea of what, if anything, lay beyond the veil of death. He couldn't even remember any kind of words or prayers fitting for such a situation. Finally, with a shrug and a sigh, he decided to wing it.

"I ask any god or being that will listen to watch over these souls, and see them safely to the other side." He looked to the children, meeting each one's gaze with a regretful eye. "I'm sorry, for everything that happened. You deserved better. I hope that, whatever awaits you, its better than this shithole of a world."

"Thank you, Witcher." The bold child, Ernst, replied, his voice somewhat fainter than it had been before. "Thank you for bringing us peace."

With those whispered words, the spectres faded, the last few wisps of their ethereal forms vanishing on the night's winds. As the last of their phantom forms disappeared, Bastian finally relaxed, his shoulders sagging.

Shrr-klnk. Shrr-klnk.

The sound of the heavy, shuffling footsteps echoed across the grounds, reaching the Witcher's ears. Bastian tensed, turning to face the mansion.

There, in the open double doors of the main building, the golden corpse shambled out into the night air. Its body was barely holding together, and in the place of its shattered head, a glowing aura of ethereal energy hovered above the stump of its neck, two bright orbs where its eyes should have been. It glared at the Witcher with menace, lurching towards him. A ragged, skeletal hand rose to reach out towards him.

"Wait!" Bastian resisted the urge to reach for his sword, instead raising his hand, palm outstretched. He waved his other hand towards the graves. "I helped the children. They're at peace now. You don't have to fight for them anymore."

The revenant paused, turning its gaze from the Witcher to the graves, then back again. It hesitated for a moment, then resumed its shuffling, moving towards the four mounds of loose soil. Bastian took a respectful step aside, staying out of the monster's reach.

The walking corpse paused next to the graves, slowly leaning down to brush at the soil. The luminous eyes scanned each of the four planks, reading the names. He paused longest on the last grave, the one engraved with the name of Eline.

A sorrowful air fell across the beast's shoulders, its head bowing. A long, low moan escaped from its chest, carrying far and wide on the night air, a sound filled with grief and remorse. In that instant, Bastian felt a swell of pity for the creature. Finally, after the echoes of the moan had ceased, the gilded revenant sagged, all signs of life leaving its form. The body of the children's father dropped into the dirt, going still one final time.

Bastian watched all of this in silence, a grim downwards turn to his lips. Once the beast had at last stopped moving, the Witcher stepped over carefully, rolling the motionless form onto its back. With gentle hands, he arranged the corpse, folding its arms across its chest, moving it into a state of repose. Once he was done, the Witcher stood, turning to leave. In moments, he'd left the mansion behind, vanishing into the night. The mansion lay silent, now finally empty.


	5. Chapter 5

Faint pink light reflected off the underside of the clouds above, a harbinger of the approaching dawn. The city was already beginning to awaken, the first few sounds of the day rising into the air. A dog barked here, a man whistled there, and above it all the sounds of thirty thousand lives beginning their daily routine echoed skywards.

Bastian stole through the streets, making his way towards the docks once more. He avoided the main thoroughfares, working his way towards the warehouse that Brysvalt had instructed him to seek out. Like a shadow, he worked his way through the alleys and backways, until he found himself before a small, wooden door. He knocked on it, three powerful strikes, then he waited.

After just a few moments, there was a thud, followed by a long, low grinding noise, a latch being pulled from its bracket. The door ground open, and a squat-bodied man waited on the other side, clad in simple leather armour, a black cloth kerchief knotted around his head. Bastian's swift eyes picked out the punch daggers sheathed on his wrists, the blades at his hips, and the scars that marred his features. A gutter rat that climbed his way up to the position of what could charitably be called a 'bodyguard', although would more aptly be recognised as a thug. Bastian held no illusions about whether or not the man posed a threat, or whether he was alone. Regardless, the Witcher stepped inside, the wooden door grinding closed behind him. With a nod, the ruffian urged him deeper into the warehouse.

Yannis Brysvalt was waiting for him, leaning against a stack of crates marked with some merchant's symbol or other. As the Witcher approached, the merchant straightened, moving out into the middle of a large space between two towering racks. The dim light of a lantern glowed, casting a warm ring around him.

"Witcher." He smiled, a thin, cold thing that lacked any sincerity. "You're later than I expected. I've been waiting all night for your return."

"The situation was more complicated than I expected." Bastian shrugged. "There was more than one being to deal with in there."

"Then its a good thing we negotiated our price before you took the contract." Yannis' smirk became just a taste more haughty, a note of victory in his voice.

"Yes. Lucky you." Bastian replied flatly.

"So, tell me!" The merchant put on an air of joviality, spreading his arms wide. "What did you find in my brother's home? What haunted that cursed building?"

"It was your brother." The Witcher explained matter-of-factly. "After his death, he became a vengeful spirit, possessing his own body."

"Oh." Yannis turned away, his shoulders sagging. "I- I suppose we should have expected that. His death, the fire... I can't imagine it was a peaceful way to go."

"No. It wasn't." Bastian answered, folding his arms. "Someone locked him in his vault, and he died covered in the molten gold of all of his treasures."

"Someone 'locked him in'?" Yannis clarified. "You're sure he wasn't just trying to save his gold, got trapped in the process?"

"I'm sure." Bastian affirmed. "I'm very good at reading these things."

"Yes, you really are." Yannis turned back, another hollow smile on his features. "Worth every single coin. A true master of your trade." He reached up to stroke his beard thoughtfully. "But now, you said that there was more than one beast. What else lurked in that place?"

"Four spirits, wraiths." Bastian grunted. "The children. They didn't understand what happened to them. I helped them to find peace, buried their remains."

"A great kindness." Yannis nodded approvingly, still stroking his beard. The gold ring on his finger gleamed in the lantern light. "I am glad you were able to do that for my family. Their spirits are finally at rest? For good?"

"Hopefully, yes."

"Hopefully?"

"Situations like this are always complicated." The Witcher explained. "The children died in the fire. Their father was trapped in his vault by whoever started that blaze. Chances are, their curse is tied to whoever did this to them. They may come back, if they aren't given vengeance. But, just maybe, burying them will be enough to give them peace."

"Hmm." The merchant chewed his lip. "But you can't say for sure. So... why should I pay you for what amounts to half a job?" He sauntered closer to the monster hunter. "I mean, if the monsters just keep coming back, what have I really paid you for?"

"Well, there's always the price of silence." Bastian's voice was a low growl as he drew closer to the merchant. His eyes flicked to the merchant's hand, then back to his face. "That's a nice ring. You know, Eline had a story about a man with a ring just like it. Even if the ghosts don't appear back at the mansion, they could keep haunting their killer in other ways."

Yannis paused, his eyes narrowing as his gaze turned steely.

"That's a very interesting story." He growled. "A dangerous one, too."

"A Witcher's life is always dangerous. Sometimes that danger spreads to the people closest to him."

"Hmf." Yannis snorted, an amused smirk on his lips. "Well then, let me tell you another story, just as interesting. Its all about a man who stole the family fortunes from his brother, swindled his own blood out of everything owed to him, then frittered it away on a lavish lifestyle, and expensive home, servants by the dozen, and a Koviri whore who had no business sharing in his family name.

"And so, the wronged brother began to plot his return to glory, his quest to reclaim what was owed to him." Yannis began to pace. "He built up his own mercantile empire, until eventually he was able to pay for his own muscle. He didn't want everything, just his fair share of the fortunes his brother stole from him."

Yannis began to circle the Witcher, hands moving animatedly as he talked. Bastian watched him carefully, keeping the merchant before him at all times.

"Things... didn't go as planned." Yannis admitted. "We were supposed to secure the gold, and leave. I didn't expect Vernan to put up such a fight. He thought we were there to kill him, and his children. The sellswords... they got out of hand so quickly. They took Vernan's pretty wife, I'm not sure where. Her screams stopped pretty quickly. Then they dragged my brother down into the cellar, demanding that he show them to the vault. He fought, trying to get away and protect his children. I guess, in the commotion, some candles must have been knocked over, or maybe a lantern was broken. Either way, it didn't take long for the inferno to spread. The thugs never even had time to loot the vault. They grabbed a few handfuls of coins, then threw Vernan in there, closed the door, and left him to burn."

"And the children?" Bastian remained impassive, although he refrained from folding his arms, keeping them close to his weapons.

"I didn't want my brother to die." Yannis, for once, seemed sincere. "I certainly didn't want the deaths of his children on my conscience. I was too late for the boys, but I could still get to Eline's room. I... I tried to save her, but she struggled against me. She wanted her father, and would trust nobody else. She struggled, I tried to calm her-"

"You hit her." Bastian corrected. "Knocked her to the ground, made her hit her head and lose consciousness."

"The house was in flames, the air thick with smoke. I had no time for a hysterical child to slow me down." The merchant spoke dismissively. "When she fell, I assumed she'd broken her neck. So I fled."

"You left a child to burn in that place, and ran like a coward." Bastian accused.

"Cowardly, maybe, but I am still alive, while my brother and his blood are not." Yannis shrugged.

"Practical." Bastian remarked. "You always struck me as a pragmatist. So that leads to the question of why you're even telling me this story. What could be gained from telling the Witcher you hired to deal with your brother's spirit about how you got him and his children killed?"

"Well, no reason, really." Yannis raised his shoulders in an expressive gesture. "I'm an old man, and I sometimes get strange whims. Maybe I like you enough to be honest with you, Witcher. Or, perhaps I'm overcome by guilt, and this will be the first step on my path to repentance." He paused, turning to look straight at the Witcher. "Or maybe its just amusing to me. After all, who will believe the word of a filthy mutant?"

The twang of a crossbow echoed through the warehouse, the bolt leaping from the shadows. The Witcher, already wary, moved with serpentine grace, blade already in hand. He caught the bolt with the flat of his sword, deflecting it to one side. The iron-tipped projectile embedded itself in a sack of grain, vanishing almost all the way into it.

As the Witcher turned to face his attacker, he became aware of movement on all sides. At Yannis' signal, seven figures emerged from the darkness, all wielding different weapons. The Cat School Master smirked confidently, lifting his sword high. with a yell, he charged at them.


	6. Chapter 6

The sewer tunnel echoed with the dripping of water, the squeaks of dozens of rats bouncing off damp brickwork in a chaotic medley. The torrent of waste flowing down the centre of the tunnel was bloated with a recent night's rain, helping to wash away the more stubborn clumps of filth that had congealed in the watercourse.

The splashing of heavy footsteps suddenly cut through the air, causing some of the smaller rats to flee in fright, while the larger, bolder ones remained, curious to see the source of the noise.

A figure lurched into view, stumbling in the shallow stream that rushed around his ankles. The normally pristine silken robes were now stained with blood, soil and other unmentionable substances. His chest expanded and contracted wildly as he struggled to draw in breath, fear evident in his wide eyes. Under his greying beard, his mouth gaped open to draw in as much air as possible.

The man glanced back, tripping over his own feet to fall face-first into the slop. He splashed about frantically before pushing himself up onto his knees. Still struggling for air, he looked over his shoulder, fear tight in his belly.

In the darkness behind him, yellow eyes glowed menacingly. No sound escorted the monstrous orbs, but it didn't need to. Their mere presence was enough to cloud the man's mind with abject terror.

Yannis Brysvalt struggled to his feet, trying to struggle on, but he was already winded, and the fall had damaged his ankle. He hobbled onwards at a slow limp, grunting as every step sent a spike of pain through his body.

His mind flashed back to the warehouse, a sickening sensation rising in his throat as he remembered the fury with which the Witcher had torn through his men. They had fought fiercely, but the monster hunter was simply too fast. His blade had danced like a white flame in his hands, blocking every attack before countering with a savage riposte or a vicious jab, every strike finding its mark with wicked cruelty.

One of the hired thugs, a big bruiser from the Pontar Valley, had posed a momentary challenge, his huge frame able to take a few strikes. He'd attacked with his heavy broadsword, striking the Witcher's block with the weight of a mountain, but the Cat Master had simply angled his blade to deflect the strike to one side, before twisting his hands to bring the pommel of his blade up, finding the thug's nose and shattering it. Then, as his assailant had staggered back, the Witcher spun and delivered a quick thrust that pierced the man's body, cutting its way up under the ribs until the tip of the blade ripped out of the man's neck. As the Witcher had pulled the blade free, a tide of blood poured out across the warehouse floor, washing against Yannis' booted feet. It was at this point, with only two of his guard left, that the merchant had turned tail and fled. He didn't see what happened to the last of his men, but their pleas for mercy and the agonised screams that followed told a tale of their own.

He stumbled around a twist in the tunnel, feeling a waft of moving air, the scent of salt crawling over the reek of the sewer. For a moment, the merchant felt his heart quicken. He must have been close to the dockside. If he could just escape the tunnel, maybe he could find a city guard, or even a small crowd of people. Surely the monster hunter would cease his pursuit then, rather than risk the lives of so many people?

His momentary hope was strangled, however, when he rounded another corner to find himself face-to-face with a solid iron grate. Just beyond, the end of the tunnel could be seen, the docks of Novigrad beginning to glow in the rising sun. The merchant stumbled into the grate, desperately trying to push his way through it. If he could just squeeze through...

A rough hand grabbed his shoulder, dragging him backwards. The Witcher hurled him bodily to the ground, a distasteful snarl on his lips.

"Every fucking time." Bastian growled, cursing under his breath. "Why is it always the fucking sewer?"

"I- I- I'm sorry!" Yannis stammered, holding his hands up plaintively. "I swear, on my life, I'll pay you three times the promised fee, if you'll just let me go!"

"Shut up!" The Witcher almost roared, his voice bouncing off the brick walls thunderously. "I'm done with listening to your weaselling words."

"Please!" The merchant begged, disobeying the Witcher in spite of all of his survival instincts telling him his words would fall on deaf ears. "I see now that trying to double-cross you was a mistake. If you let me live, I promise to-"

The backhand was so powerful that the merchant was almost lifted bodily from where he cowered, tumbling to the damp brickwork. Two bloody teeth clattered across the sewer floor, where an opportunistic rat managed to scoop them up, chittering in triumph as he scurried away with them. Brysvalt nursed his jaw, feeling the fractures that now ran through the bone.

Bastian, standing over him, still seethed with anger, his shoulders rising and falling with every breath. He could feel the animal within, clawing to find a way out, but his resolve remained as hard as iron, keeping the beast in check. Slowly, deliberately, he drew his sword.

"It didn't have to end like this." The Witcher hissed. "All you had to do was pay up, and let me be on my way. But you never planned on that, did you? You thought you'd get me to deal with your dirty little secret for you, then dispose of the mutant freak."

Unable to speak with the damage to his jaw, Brysvalt opted for simply nodding his confession, unable to meet the monster hunter's fearsome eyes.

Bastian felt his lip curl as his grip tightened on his blade. He lashed out, a single slice of the sword. Brysvalt didn't even have time to scream before his head tumbled free of his shoulders. The grisly trophy rolled across the cold stonework, coming to a halt some feet away.

With an irritated snort, Bastian knelt to wipe his blade on the corpse. He glanced to the steaming pool of blood that now coursed across the ancient, grimy brickwork, finding its way into the crack between each brick, staining the mortar crimson. In moments, the red tide found its way into the flowing waterway, mingling with the water and waste. A scarlet cloud filled the water, flowing out through the grate and into the docks. With any luck, the blood would disperse before anybody above noticed it, but Bastian still realised that it would be ill-advised to stick around.

He spared a final glance at the corpse, sighing as he stood up. The loss of a potential client like Brysvalt was a disappointment, certainly. But allowing an influential man like him to tell his peers about how he'd cheated a Witcher out of coin, and lived, was not something the guild could afford to allow to pass. No, it was better to send a firm message in this way. To cheat any member of the guild was to invite swift and deadly retribution. In the coming days, when Brysvalt's body was eventually found, word would get out, and Bastian's brethren would find it much easier to get their clients to honour their commitments. Perhaps not the cleanest solution, but certainly the best in the long-term. And, hopefully, this would also ensure that the ghosts of the Brysvalt mansion would remain at peace for good. Bastian certainly hoped so.

The Witcher turned away from the corpse, heading back down the tunnel. He began to mull over his next steps. He still had the contract on the other merchant to collect on. After that, he wasn't sure where to go. He'd heard tell of a contract on a Chort somewhere to the south, a village by the name of Boggevrieg or somesuch. While the ghastly beasts were normally a challenge, they also paid well, and the chance to leave the city behind for a while, take in the countryside and get away from scheming merchants and nobles, the idea held a certain attraction for him.

Bastian stalked through the sewers, finally emerging into the open air with a sigh of relief. The cool morning air greeted his nostrils as he pulled in a deep long breath and, with a weary stride, set off for the city's borders.


End file.
